Menage (31 page)
Joe's amber eyes caught fire as I gave way before him. Blue glints shone in his straight black hair and his lips were a stern red slash in his handsome face. I'd never seen him look so beautiful - or so heartless.
'How can you do this when I love you?' I said, but he cared nothing for the words.
'Get - in - the - box,' he ordered, swinging the long whip between the words. 'You know you won't be happy until I've caged you.'
I hated that dream. I didn't believe it. I didn't want anyone to cage me - ever.
But I couldn't deny I woke up wet every time I had it.
The Prodigal Returns
A huge bouquet arrived the day we opened MR Enterprises' new administrative office. Sean and I had purchased a narrow, three-storey building in
Philadelphia
's
. The building was in dire need of renovation, but the price was right and the view could not be beaten. From the little rooftop garden, we could see the gleaming white spire of
Delaware River
. Inside, sunshine bathed every corner. At our request, the architect left the beams and pipes exposed and knocked two skylights through the roof. The infrastructure we painted teal. The skylights we filled with ferns. Framed cover art decorated the exposed brick walls, and the combined effect was lush and fresh.
My admiration could not, however, unpack my boxes any faster.
Seizing on the arrival of the floral messenger as an excuse to wander out, I leant over the second-level railing to watch our twenty-year-old receptionist sign the delivery slip. She turned to call across the sun-dappled space.
"They're for you,’ she said.
Sean must have sent them, I thought as I clanked down the painted metal stairs. He was at the warehouse today for an efficiency meeting with the company who handled our on-line orders. He was good with the managers, most of whom had worked their way up from the loading bay. They admired a man who'd earned his living with his hands - and could still heave a crate with the best of them.
I smiled as I scampered down the last few steps. The men at the warehouse didn't know that these days Sean kept his calluses in shape by heaving dumbbells, not crates. Fortunately, what they didn't know wouldn't hurt our service, including the fact that Sean could be awfully sweet when he put his mind to it. Imagine -sending me flowers for opening day.
At my approach, the receptionist clasped the fat hand-blown vase and slid it towards the centre of her C-shaped counter. The heavy iron and glass told me this was not a standard arrangement.
'Shall I carry them up, Ms Winthrop?' asked the wide-eyed girl.
I laughed. "They're bigger than you are, Cheryl. No, I'll just read the card and leave them here to impress the movers.'
The profusion of roses was impressive. Three dozen red and white American Beauties spilt from the vase. The air conditioning wasn't up to scratch yet and their perfume overwhelmed the reception area.
The scent triggered a flash of
deja
vu, more the memory of an emotion than an event. Unaccountably, my pulse began to race.
'Here's the card,' said Cheryl, extracting it from the mass of dark green leaves.
I opened it with unsteady hands. 'Prepare yourself, Kate,' it said.'
My mind blanked. Then I
recognised
the handwriting. My heart leapt before I could stop it. 'J' for Joe. Joe was sending me flowers? Joe was in town? I touched the bold, swooping initial. He probably was if he'd written the card himself.
But what did he mean by 'prepare yourself?
Whatever happened to 'How have you been?' or 'Congratulations' or 'Sorry for being such an uncommunicative toad!'?
I glared at the heavy cream-
coloured
paper. I guessed earning a hundred thousand per episode gave a person airs.
'Bad news?' Cheryl asked, practically quaking in her teeny-tiny combat boots. She was an adorable slip of a thing, bright as a new penny, and for some reason I scared the pants off her.
I patted her narrow shoulder. 'Just a note from an old friend. But I remembered something I need to do at the
'Sure,' she said, looking worried but staunch.
'You'll be fine.' I suppressed an urge to pinch her cheek. 'Shall I say "hi" to Keith for you while I'm there?'
She fiddled with the last of the three gold rings that pierced her right eyebrow. 'Oh, well, if you think he'd want me to say "hi".'
I grinned. She had no idea what her diminutive tootsies did to our otherwise conservative shop manager. Keith's freckles practically melted the day he met Cheryl - and her perfect size twos. Too bad he didn't have the nerve to speak to her.
'I'm sure Keith would be delighted to know you were thinking of him,’ I said, 'assuming you want to delight him. He has a wild side, you know.'
'Does he?' she breathed, sounding intrigued enough to justify my matchmaking.
I left assured that she'd have better things to mull over than what might go wrong in my absence - because absent I was determined to be. If Master 'J' decided to follow his flowers into my office, he could bloody well lord it over someone else.
' "Prepare yourself",' I fumed, not stopping to wonder why those words sent me into a fury when they came from Joe - and would have made me chuckle if they'd come from Sean.
The normally quiet Cheryl was bubbling with news when I returned that afternoon.
'You'll never believe who was here,’ she said, her elfin face as pink as the proverbial English rose.
'Joseph Capriccio?' I suggested, pretending to flip through my mail.
'Yes!' she shrieked, then covered her mouth with both hands. I couldn't help smiling as she bounced on the balls of her feet. 'I can't believe you know him, Ms Winthrop. That is, like, way totally cool. He is so hot on Manhattan Nights and even better looking in person. Did you know he had the same voice coach as me? And he's nice. When he heard you were out, we just talked and talked.'
I looked up from the mail.
'Talked about what?' I asked, more sharply than I'd intended.
Cheryl's smile faltered. 'About you, mostly, and MR Enterprises. But I swear I didn't tell him anything that isn't in our brochures. Except -' She drew a circle in the condensation from Joe's huge vase of roses.
'Except?' I prompted.
'Except I sort of let it slip that you didn't have a date tonight.'
I sighed heavily, rolling my eyes behind closed lids.
'I'm sorry, Ms Winthrop. He seemed kind of sweet on you and I know it's none of my business but I got the impression that you and
Mr
Halloran
aren't, like, joined at the hip.
Mr
Capriccio was just so nice and he smelled so good, the words popped out of my mouth.'
She looked so miserable, I gave in to impulse and tweaked the tip of her nose. 'It's okay. You didn't know.'
'He left you a present,’ she offered in a forlorn voice. 'I carried it up to your desk.'
"Thank you,’ I said, and waited until she met my eye. 'Don't worry, sweetie. I'm not mad at you. This is something I have to handle myself.'
I refused to open the big, bowed box until everyone had left for the night. My office, like Sean's beside it, had no front wall. We planned to buy some Japanese screens to preserve our privacy without blocking the great light but, until we did, our every move was gossip fodder.
I was glad I waited. The box contained a long sequined evening gown in cobalt blue. Heavy as hell, its back swooped so low I suspected it would flirt with more than one sort of cleavage. Beneath the dress lay a neatly folded pile of accessories. One by one, I discovered white evening gloves, creamy suede
Ferragamo
shoes, silk stockings, a lacy suspender belt, a minuscule G-string -and no bra.
Under the pile of goodies lay a second message. The fact that Joe knew I'd dig far enough to find it infuriated me. Six months without him had not dimmed my passion for provocative lingerie.
'
. Tonight.
Halloran's
,’ said this equally curt note. 'Wear the dress.'
Halloran's
. I fanned the envelope against my chin. That was Sean's cousin's place across the river, which meant Sean was an accessory to whatever scheme Joe was cooking up.
Great, I thought. They join forces and I lose the one person I could complain to - or ask for advice.
Was avoiding Joe childish? Would I kick myself later if I didn't at least hear what he had to say? I had to admit I was curious, even if his invitation did put my back up.
I stroked the sleek, fish-scale surface of the dress. The blue sequins winked at me and threw sparkles off the rough brick wall behind my desk.
Heat curled through my centre as I pictured myself pulling on the long white gloves and the panties and the stockings. I could almost feel the heavy gown draping my breasts and buttocks, the mermaid cling at waist and ankle, the cool expanse of skin along my back. I knew I'd look like sex on the half-shell in that dress.
I also knew I'd look a fool if I traipsed into a steak joint like
Halloran's
wearing it. Joe was playing games with me. I wasn't sure why, but I damn well didn't have to play along.
To hell with dressing up, I decided.
Mr
Big could take me as I was or not at all.
When the cab dropped me off beneath
Halloran's
green awning on the dot of eight, I found a closed for private party sign on the door.
The music and laughter drifting out the windows told me I wasn't the only guest.
What now? I thought. I swung my linen jacket over my shoulder. The evening
smouldered
, though the sun was just a sliver of mango and lime on the horizon. My bra showed through the light crocheted top I wore, but it was a nice bra, so who cared?
Throwing caution to the winds, I yanked open the unattended door and headed up
Halloran's
stairs, loud jazz music buffeting me all the way.
As soon as I reached the dining room I saw that I was, in fact, severely underdressed. Men in dinner jackets sat at every table, accompanied by women who were poured into gowns much more elaborate than the one I'd refused to wear.
I looked down in dismay. I wasn't even wearing a skirt. Hell, I had my trainers on. Heads turned towards me from the nearest tables. My face heated.
'May I help you?' asked a man in a slightly worn dinner jacket - presumably a waiter.
'Yes.' I strove not to act like a gatecrasher. 'Joe
Capric-cio
asked me to meet him here.'
The waiter stared at me. Did he think I was lying? I lifted my chin and stared straight back, determined to brazen this out. The waiter's expression cleared. 'Ah, yes, Ms Winthrop. Follow me, please.'
He led me to a table in the very centre of the room. It held two place settings. More heads turned as I sat in the chair the waiter held for me.
'Where's Joe?' I asked, before he could slip away.
The waiter tucked his hands together like a Chinese Mandarin. 'Regrettably,
Mr
Capriccio has been detained. We expect him shortly.'
Somehow that did not surprise me. 'What about Sean
Halloran
? Is he around?'
The waiter cocked his head. 'We're not expecting young
Mr
Halloran
this evening.'
'Fine,' I said, close to grinding my teeth. 'Would you mind bringing me a drink while I wait then?'
The waiter gestured towards a bevy of satin gowns. 'We have an open bar tonight. Please help yourself and, as I said, we're expecting our host presently.'
Of course you are, I thought. I immediately weighed and discarded the option of running the diamond gauntlet to the bar. To make matters worse, the jazz quartet took a break - as if my arrival had been a signal. Resigning myself to a dry, painful wait, I looked around the glittering crowd. I
recognised
a
councillor
, a sax player, a local record producer, and a respected African-American author. I didn't know any of them to talk to, unfortunately, and no one talked to me - though I suspected some of them were talking about me.
Twenty minutes of standing out like a sore thumb changed my mind about assailing the bar. Forty minutes - and two vodka tonics - later, my capacity for martyrdom was completely exhausted.
Joe wasn't the Joe I'd known if he could play a rotten trick like this, luring me here only to stand me up. He made sure I'd feel as uncomfortable as possible while I waited, too. But I had too much self-respect to tolerate it any longer. Besides, the liquor was making me maudlin. I'd be crying in my tonic before long, and God knew I didn't want to give Joe that satisfaction.